


Elegant Design (working title)

by Arluen14



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, HP: EWE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:27:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7030903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arluen14/pseuds/Arluen14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if you woke up one day from an accident with no memory?</p>
<p>What if the life you wake up to-- a life you adore-- turns out to be a dream?</p>
<p>How far would you go to find the truth?</p>
<p>Would you move on, or try your hardest to get back to the dream, no matter the cost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How do I know that voice?

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt I'm working off of is one I've been kicking around for a while. It's based in the idea, what if this world, the real world, is only a dream, and the stories we read, are real. How do you figure out the truth, and how do you decide which world to stay in, if you even can choose?
> 
> I'm working with the HP universe, though it is AU since this is an SSHG story. I'll amend the tags and warnings as necessary as I go.
> 
> For our purposes, the epilogue never happened, Severus survives, and the whole thing is set about 5 years after the battle.

The first thing I consciously recognized was pain. My head hurt so bad I thought someone must have been pounding on it with a hammer.

The next thing I noticed was the smell. It was the same astringent, sterile smell present in every medical facility the world over.

After that, when my brain really started processing things properly, I knew something was very wrong. It would be a long time before I realized just how wrong, and by then, it was almost cruel for life to work itself out.

* * *

 

As I became conscious of the pain in my head I groaned and screwed up my eyes. Somewhere I could hear movement and a door, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Though I felt like I was moving through molasses, I eventually managed to raise a hand to my head and massage it a bit before I was brave enough to open my eyes.

Nothing. Blackness.

At first I just thought the lights were off, but no matter what, there is always some kind of ambient light, some feeling that I should be seeing an object. This was not the case.

I felt my face to ensure my eyes were in fact open, then waved my hand in front of my face.

Nothing.

I reached over to my side, sure there must be a nightstand, or possibly a call button as the smell indicated some sort of medical facility. The table was there, but there was no light source apparent.

Some part of my brain registered that I must be in denial, or possibly even shock, but another, more insistent part, wanted to wait; wanted to call for help; anything to prove wrong what my senses were screaming at me: I was blind.

After what could have been hours or just a few minutes, I heard a scraping off to my right, which I assumed to be the door. The soft tapping of the footsteps that accompanied the door opening stopped, presumably upon seeing me awake. My vision didn’t change.

“Hello?” I croaked. Who knew when the last time I used my voice was? I attempted to clear it lightly, then asked, “Who’s there?” While slightly stronger, my voice was still raspy. The person at the door slowly approached my bed, bringing a new scent with them. It was a male scent, certainly, but also vaguely familiar, full of sort of spicy, woodsy aromas.

It was intoxicating.

“Would you like some water?” His voice… I was sure I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t place it. The deep, lilting tones made me want to melt into the bed.

“Please?” was all I managed to croak out. I scooted up the bed a little before lifting my hand, clearly waiting for the glass to be placed into it instead of trying to reach for a cup I couldn’t see. The mystery gentleman held it steady as I shakily managed to bring the cup to my lips without spilling it all over me. Once I’d finished, I tried again to figure out what was going on.

“What’s happened? Where am I?” Infuriatingly, instead of answering my question, he again answered with a question of his own.

“What do you remember?” he said, gently. I frowned and tried to think. The continued pounding in my head did not help at all. After a moment I shook my head.

“That’s just it. I don’t remember anything. I know things, I can deduce some things, but I don’t _remember_ anything.” He was silent a moment before phrasing another question, one that had my heart pounding almost as hard as the hammer in my skull.

“By ‘anything,’ do you mean you don’t remember the events that brought you here, or do you mean you don’t have any memory?”

“I-,“ I paused, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this. “I know things. I know that I must have a head injury because of how much it’s pounding, and the fact that I’m blind, but seem to instinctively know what things look like. That means I wasn’t always sightless.” My strange companion seemed to start at that revelation, but kept silent. “I don’t actually have any memory of an injury, nor do I know how I know what I’ve just described. Where I came by the knowledge, that is. I know I’m in a hospital, or something similar because of the smell, but I don’t have memory of ever being in one. I know you’re male, probably tall, and I recognize both your scent and your voice, but I can’t recall how I know them; can’t recall your face; nor your name.” I paused again and took a deep breath. “I don’t even remember my own name. I can tell you things, clearly I can speak, eat, deduce, but whatever caused that head injury, caused some rather serious amnesia. I don’t even know how I know that memory loss is called amnesia!” I threw up my arms as much as I could in my weakened stated before letting them and my head fall back onto the bed.

My companion was quiet for some time. I imagined he was processing everything I’d just told him. For some inexplicable reason—probably the same I recognized his scent and voice—I knew he had a fierce scowl on his face.

“I think it best to retrieve a healer before I answer your questions. It would be best to better understand your memory loss and the chances of its return before we attempt to fill in the void, as it were. The rustle of clothing indicated his movement.

“Will you at least tell me my name? And yours, for that matter?”

“You are Hermione Granger, and I, am Severus Snape.” I nodded my thanks, not even sure I was looking at him, then heard the tapping of his boots as he headed for the door.

* * *

 

_I don’t remember anything._

The words hung like a death knell in my head, turning round and round in circles. She knew plenty of things, but my beautiful, brilliant, witch, had no true memory.

“Healer Sampson, she is awake.” The young woman behind the desk’s eyes widened comically before she jumped out of her seat. I grabbed her arm before she could go charging down to Hermione’s room.

“Before you go dashing off down the hall, you should know, she has no soft memories—memories of events or actions, that is. She didn’t even know her own name, until I told her.” The woman gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “She knows about things, the fact she’s in a hospital, that she has a head injury—all this she figured out herself, but she has no memory of the events that brought her here, or how she came by any knowledge she has.”

“I must see her immediately and call a specialist from the Janus-Thikey ward. They know more about memory loss than anyone else in the world.” I nodded and released the young witch’s arm, then followed her back to Hermione’s room, a slow pain overtaking my heart. The sickening realization that my witch might never be coming back was slowly pulling itself out of the box I had firmly locked it in since they told me she might never wake up. Seeing her eyes open when I returned to her room earlier had made hope well in my chest much stronger that I had thought it would, and apparently stronger that it should have.

Waking up didn’t mean she was going to be alright.


	2. A Test of Patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry this has taken so long. It's been written for some time, but my beta reader? Co-Author? Editor? and I have kicking around some edits and ideas so we don't hit any walls later on. I will, hopefully, have another chapter posted next week and one the week after that.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~A

   Severus watched from the corner of Hermione’s room as Sampson fluffed her pillows and helped her sit upright. It struck him just how frail Hermione had become as she struggled to use her arms. In a flash, Sampson pulled out her wand and started muttering a series of diagnostic charms. The resulting spectrum of colours was little changed from the last time he’d seen it the previous morning. The differences seemed to centre around Hermione’s head, now a shifting mass of colours indicating high levels of brain function where before there was only the blues and greens of stasis.

   “Could you speak up, please?” Hermione’s still rasping voice interrupted the stream, causing the colours to fade. “It’s just, I can hear you speaking, but I can’t quite understand you.”

   “I was just running a few diagnostics, dear. Nothing to worry about. Now, you’ve taken quite the knock to your head. A bit of amnesia isn’t unusual, but I’m going to contact a specialist anyway. There should still be someone over there who can come take a look.” Severus frowned, Hermione unknowingly mimicking the expression.

   “What about her eyes?” Hermione’s head snapped towards him, her blank stare somewhat unnerving.

   “They may very well be trickier than recovering her memories. The problem I see right now, is the lack of a problem in the diagnostics. I didn’t see anything to indicate an injury in the ocular region. I’m going to need to consult with a colleague better versed in high power diagnostics to see if we can find the root injury.” Severus’ scowl deepened, though he never took his eyes off the witch in the bed.

   “Is there anything you  _ can _ tell us?” A small smile played at the corners of Hermione’s mouth when she heard the sarcasm fairly dripping from his voice. It was possible she wasn’t as lost as he’d previously assumed. Sampson looked between the two of them, sputtering a bit.

   “It’s a very unusual case, pro…” Severus jerked his eyes to her, his forbidding expression daring her to finish that title. “Sir. As I’ve been telling you for the last three weeks, according to the diagnostics, she’s perfectly healthy.”

   “Three weeks! That’s how long I was out?” Hermione’s eyes had grown wide, their vacant stare now looking startled, bordering on frantic, prompting Severus to step closer to her bed.

   “Calm down, Hermione.” 

   “Don’t patronise me. I am calm.”

   “Your eyes say otherwise.” She froze and took a deep breath. “Go contact your colleagues Sampson.” The mediwitch took a moment to fluff Hermione’s pillow again before departing, pulling the door softly behind her.

   “Amnesia isn’t uncommon in head injuries. Blindness is. Where did I hit my head?” Severus observed her silently a moment, not quite sure what he was looking for. For all intents and purposes, she appeared to be his logical, level-headed witch. The desire to touch her was nearly overwhelming. It was difficult to remember she didn’t know him, and that such actions would be incredibly unwelcome at this stage.

   “As far as we could determine, the impact occurred to the back of your head,” he answered in a respectable attempt at detatchment.

   “That would actually make sense. If the impact was great enough, it’s entirely possible the optic nerves could have become detached at one end or the other. They could heal themselves, or they might not, in which case, the blindness would be permanent.” Hermione sat quietly a moment, clearly thinking through something. Severus was, for once, at a loss for words. There was clearly a large amount of the knowledge Hermione had accumulated over the years still rattling around in her brain. It was looking more and more like the memory loss was rather specific to her memories of her life, rather than miscellaneous knowledge. It begged the question: could a simple concussion cause that kind of damage? “How do I know all this?” She finally whispered, her voice frail and strained. “Am I a nurse, or something?” She clearly didn’t believe that to be the case, but couldn’t help asking anyway.

   “No.” Severus took a seat in the chair beside her bed. “You specialise in research and development. I’m going to assume the majority of the knowledge you have right now was accumulated from your voracious need to read every book and scroll every printed.” The words were somewhat mocking, but his tone was anything but. It was clear to Hermione this love of reading was rather central to her character, and perhaps something this man found both exasperating and endearing.

_    All that from his tone of voice, _ she mused.

   “Will you tell me about myself?” It seemed an innocent enough question, but Severus thought hard about how to answer. On one hand he desperately wanted her to remember, for purely selfish reasons. On the other, he didn’t want to harm her recovery by telling her information she would be better suited to remember herself.

   “I will tell you what I can, but I would like to wait until speaking with the healer from the Janus-Thickey Ward. It is imperative we do not harm your recovery by imparting too much information at once. It would be best, I think, if you recovered your memories in your own time.”

   “And if I never recover them?”

   Severus was relieved from needing to answer when Sampson suddenly returned with a rather sedate older witch.

   “This is Mediwitch Merryweather. She’s a specialist from the Janus-Thickey ward in traumatic memory loss.” The elder witch nodded her head, in recognition, but said nothing as she began to flick her wand in a series of diagnostic charms. Hermione became more and more confused as no one appeared inclined to say anything. To her, the tension in the room was steadily increasing from the silence. She fidgeted uneasily, and turned her head to try and catch any latent sounds indicating some movement from the other people in the room. The term mediwitch niggled at her brain. It seemed such a strange term. Besides, what self-respecting physician would claim anything to do with witchcraft. This seemed to be a rather strange sort of hospital she’d woken up in. Severus noticed her unease, but attributed it not to her lack of sight or understanding of her surroundings, but her uneasiness with the results of Merryweather’s diagnostics. Finally, when she could bear the oppressive silence no more, Hermione spoke up.

   “Um, hello? Are… Are we meant to be discussing something? I’m sorry, but if no one says anything, I’ve really no idea whatsoever is going on.” All the while she tried to look in the direction she’d heard Healer Sampson’s voice, but never quite managed to look at anyone. “I don’t mean to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing, but—in case you forgot—I can’t actually  _ see _ any of you.” Her comment startled Merryweather, and shamed Sampson and Severus for once again forgetting her blindness. “What sort of hospital is this, anyway?” The mediwitch paused in her diagnostics, turning to Sampson for confirmation.

   “I’m sorry.” Sampson mumbled sheepishly. “I forgot to mention that on our way down here. Miss Granger woke up earlier exhibiting with both amnesia and blindness.”

   “I’m not sure it will make a difference to my diagnosis, but it is generally useful to know the patient’s entire health situation when doing so.” Merryweather’s tone was positively acerbic. “Do keep that in mind for the future.” Sampson, quite subdued by the reproach, nodded and shuffled a few steps towards the door. Severus hid a smirk before turning to Merryweather.

   “Do you believe it will take long for you to make your diagnosis?”

   “I’m not sure. I need to run a few more diagnostics, then I’m going to need to speak with you, Ms. Granger, to ascertain exactly which parts of your memory seem to be affected.” Severus nodded to himself before standing.

   “In that case, I believe I will take this time to inform Ms. Granger’s friends of her state of consciousness.”

   “Of course, sir. That would likely be a wise decision.” He turned back to Hermione, who for her part appeared to be equal parts annoyed and confused, but remained silent.

   “We shall have to see which bridges remain to be crossed, Miss Granger. For now, I bid you good evening.”

   “Thank you. We’ll speak again?” Her voice was hopeful, if a bit insecure.

   “We will…Hermione.” The soft breath of her name flowed around Hermione, giving her the oddest sense of warmth, as though his voice was wrapping her in layers of comfort.

   The feeling was simultaneously highly disconcerting.

   All Hermione could do in response was nod, at which Severus swept out of the room, his black robes billowing even in the small distance he needed to cross to the door. The impression was entirely lost on the unseeing Hermione, but a reinforcement to Sampson, and even Merryweather, of the man’s power. Few people had enough latent magic that the excess flowed around them so smoothly and constantly. The woman in the bed was expected to be another one as her magic matured. Merryweather thought it likely the young witch’s power was already great enough that her assistance might not be much needed in regaining Hermione’s memories. 

   Sampson took the opportunity to bow out as well, citing other patients to attend to, leaving only Hermione and Merryweather in the room.

   “Now, Miss Granger, I take it, by your previous question, that you have no knowledge of where you are?”

   “No.”

   “I will answer your question, but first, I have a few of my own.” Hermione nodded. Merryweather began casting diagnostic charms again before settling one over Hermione’s head, showing a variety of colours constantly swirling about. She carefully studied them, looking for anything that could hint at a gap or an abnormality, but so far, found none. “I’m going to ask you a number of questions. They might seem odd or insignificant, but I want you to do your best to answer them as truthfully as possible. Your answer may be that you don’t know, and that’s perfectly alright. Are you ready?”

   “Yes.”

   “What is your earliest memory?” The reds at the back of Hermione’s head flared, indicating the physical injury that had put her in the hospital. She hesitated a moment.

   “Pain. In my head.”

   “Try and think back to before the pain, Miss Granger.”

   “Could you be a little more specific?”

   “When is your birthday?” The colours shifted, but didn’t settle. She appeared to be searching for an answer, but found none forthcoming.

   “I don’t know.”

   “That’s alright. What is the 7 th letter of the alphabet?”

   “G.” The answer was immediate, the colours focussing in a band around the top of her head behind her ears.

   “Very good, Miss Granger. Now, what colour are your eyes?” The diagnostic colours shifted again, seeming to toward the back of her head, before swirling around in a confusion of colours once more.

   “I can’t remember.”

   “How about the seven days of the week?” The colours shifted into the purples indicative of higher thought and moved towards the front of her head.

   “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.”

   “And, how many months are there in a year?” Nothing changed much.

   “Twelve.”

   “You’re doing quite well. What are the names of your best friends?” The purples dimmed and shifted to reveal a variety of colours, but didn’t settle on one area of her head.

   “I don’t know,” she finally responded after a few moments. Curiously, a tendril of green settled just above and behind her ears where auditory memories were stored.

   “Are you sure? None of their names?” Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably, the green taking on more hues and gaining saturation.

   “Just one. At least, I think he’s a friend.”

   “His name?”

   “Severus Snape.” Merryweather noticed the small tendrils of the same colour green weaving around a number of sections of Hermione’s brain: olfactory senses, tactile sensation, auditory memory, and—most importantly—short-term memory.

   “Did he tell you his name when you woke up earlier?” The young witch looked a bit guilty.

   “Yes. He told me my name as well.” That explained it then. She did have some visceral memory of the potions Master, but no long term memory.

   “Another question. What colour is the sky?”

   “Blue. Or rather, a bit grey most of the time.” Meriwether nodded as purples once again took over, focussing on Hermione’s centres of reasoning and speech.

   “Alright Miss Granger. I’m going to run a few more diagnostics. If you’ll just sit still for me, we’ll be done in a few minutes.” Hermione sat obediently, all the while thinking how strange everything seemed. The  _ mediwitch’s _ questions were varied, and seemed for the most part unconnected, but Hermione knew each was meant to stimulate her mind in a different way. Jumping around was meant to illustrate the presence of a weakness in one particular section over another, and to keep her relaxed. For the most part, she found it tiresome and aggravating as the memories that seemed truly important continued to elude her.

   After a few moments of highlighting various areas of Hermione’s brain and attempting to focus on sections where there was a lack of function evident, Merryweather felt she had an idea as to the problem. It was a rather sinister thought, but in light of the ‘accident’ that landed the young woman in St. Mungos, perhaps it wasn’t too far-fetched.

   She was, after-all, a decorated war heroine.


	3. A Re-meeting of Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is chapter 3. I'm apparently an unobservant idiot, because I could have sworn this was already posted. In May. Five months ago.  
> Alas, thus is not the case, but it's good for you wonderful people because you get 3 chapters in the next week since I now have this one and the following two ready to go. Plan to check back Saturday and next Tuesday for updates.
> 
> ~A

When Severus returned an hour and half later, he was nursing the headache that usually accompanied conversations with Weasleys. Potter, he was less than pleased to admit had actually become rather mature the last few years. Conversations were still awkward, but the Boy was turning into something of a man. Still, Severus would need to see if Sampson had any reliable headache potions lying about the ward.

Disconcertingly, he was met at the ward desk not by Healer Sampson, but by Mediwitch Merryweather. Her expression was grim, not at all a promising start to the imminent conversation, nor improvement to his headache. In her left hand was a rather thick scroll, sealed with a bright red band to indicate a classified document. Severus had always found that practice to be rather ostentatious, but noted that as a spy it made it much easier to locate information intended to be kept secret. He came to a stop before her, wrapping his robes around him like armour.

“You have completed your assessment?” She nodded her head gravely and held up the scroll. The aging healer’s lips pursed in distaste.

“I’d advise you locate the young Lord Malfoy as soon as possible to review these findings.” She took great care to use his godson’s lordly title instead of the medical honorific he’d earned. “He has the most knowledge in this particular field, I believe. He may also be better suited to advise you in the next steps you should take.” Severus’ expression blackened throughout her speech, his head beginning to pound as the tension in his neck grew. There were a handful of reasons his godson, Draco Malfoy, would be needed in a case of memory loss—none of them boded well.

Since the war, Draco made something of a name for himself as a ‘neurologist’, a muggle term for Mediwizards skilled in ailments of the brain and nervous system. His specialty lay in memory loss, specifically that gained by way of curse damage and memory charms. His current study was into healing the minds of victims of the cruciatus, but had previously worked with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on a handful of cases in which the victims were attacked with some form of memory charm to remove their witness of crimes.

“What, exactly, is your diagnosis?” He demanded through gritted teeth.

Merryweather was not a witch to be cowed into submission. At nearly 80 she’d raised four children—one of whom was a potions student under Severus in his early years teaching—and managed to make it through both of the most recent wizarding wars. Her knowledge of spell damage and memory loss was nearly unparalleled—Draco’s recent rise to stardom in the field the only real exception. She was matron of the Janus Thickey Ward and proud of the strides they’d made in the last few years since to war into understanding brain damage.  All that said, she knew when to stand her ground and when to tread carefully.

To her credit, her voice remained steady and strong.

“Suffice it to say, I neither believe the event that put Miss Granger in St. Mungo’s to be an accident, nor her memory loss to be the side effect of a good knock to the head. Her blindness—yes, that is most likely caused by the head injury and will need further study. I’ve placed the name of a specialist in post-traumatic visual loss in the scroll. The amnesia—most definitely not.” Severus nodded, an abrupt, jerking motion, and accepted the scroll from her.

“I’ll pass this on shortly. Is she still awake?”

“She is. I’ve prescribed some potions to manage her pain, which will make her quite groggy, and possibly cause some difficulty following thought processes and managing her motor functions, but she should only need them for a few days, I should think. It’s in her best interests to be off of them as soon as possible so the full extent of her head injury can be assessed. It should never have been left this long as it is.” Severus raised an eyebrow, prompting her to continue.

“Head injuries are delicate, Mr. Snape. The longer they’re left untreated, the higher the likelihood of permanent damage and disability.” She continued to detail the findings of her examinations, careful to get out what needed to be said without pushing Severus’ anger over the edge. It was obvious he was holding onto his temper by a thread. “As soon as she was stabilised, someone from my ward should have been here to assess and monitor her progress, coma or not. I’m going to be having an in-depth discussion with the intake and trauma teams to try and ascertain where the breakdown in communication was so it can be corrected.”

“I should like you to keep me apprised of your findings. It is possible, should your diagnosis prove correct, that the delay in contacting you was intentional.” Her eyes widened, but Merryweather nodded her understanding and took her leave, her mint green robes hanging heavy on her shoulders. Severus closed his eyes a moment, his only concession to the headache now raging through his mind. The vague wanderings of his mind from earlier in the day returned, only confirming for him what Merryweather was suggesting.

The accident was not an accident, but an attack staged in such a way as to cover up the real crime.

And they’d missed it. He; Potter; all the Aurors assigned to the case (not that that was surprising); everyone had missed it.

As he finally made his way down the hallway, Severus thought of the implications of Merryweather’s diagnosis. It stopped him short, all the foul possibilities assaulting his mind at once. Severus froze halfway down the hallway to Hermione’s room. It was likely the assailant had intended one of three outcomes: Hermione die in the explosion or from injuries related to it; she never wake up from the coma; the true cause of her memory loss never be discovered nor corrected. The distinct possibility of all three outcomes failing raised the very real likelihood of another attempt on her life. Coming out of his reverie, Severus fairly flew the rest of the way to Hermione’s room, bursting through the door in a tangle of robes. The door handle slammed into the wall hard enough to leave a dent.

Much to his relief, not only was Hermione alone, but she appeared to be awake and fairly alert, though clearly it was a struggle for her to remain so. She startled at the sound of the door, which annoyed Severus at his own ill-grace, but seemed to relax after taking a deep breath. The sight of her sitting calmly in the bed, the rest of the room deserted, made him breathe a sigh of relief along with her.

“Hello Severus. Was it really necessary to throw the door open like that?” Her greeting surprised him. He had yet to announce himself and couldn’t fathom how she could have possibly known it was him. Reigning in his temporary moment of insanity, Severus resumed his seat by her bed before speaking, arranging his robes around him like a shield between himself and the world, most especially the woman in the bed who may or may not be the woman he…

No. That wasn’t a place he was willing to go; willing to contemplate.

“Did Mediwitch Merryweather speak with you about her diagnosis?” Hermione scrunched up her nose in a way Severus found equally annoying and adorable, though now that he thought of it, he’d never told her that. When she was back, Severus vowed to himself to be more expressive of his emotions. The one thing he’d thought of over and over the last three weeks was how little he’d said to Hermione about how he felt about her. That was something that needed to change.

“She said very little and was so concerned with some sort of findings she even forgot to answer my questions.” She was clearly annoyed, but still fairly calm, almost lethargic, which was most likely due to the potions Merryweather dispensed to her. Hermione shivered and hunched further down into her blankets. Severus hadn’t noticed the room as being particularly chilled, but reasoned his jacket and robes were keeping him a good deal warmer than the thin gown and blankets Hermione was under. He cast a subtle warming charm over her and stretched his legs out before him.

“And what questions would those be?” She hummed slightly in contentment before replying.

“Let’s start with where the hell am I?” As she spoke, Severus watched her every move. She seemed to be having difficulty holding up her head, most likely caused by the drowsiness from the potions. The slight slur to her speech could be attributed to that as well, but Severus had encountered head injuries in the past where the patient was never able to speak completely precisely again. It was something to monitor.

“St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.”

“You’re having me on.” Her lack of faith in him stung.

One of the things that had always surprised Severus was Hermione’s seemingly unending faith in him. He’d never heard her so much as drop his title whilst she was in school, let alone use some of the foul nicknames so many others put to use. He’d even overheard her defending him to her classmates on more than one occasion. Murdering Albus finally shook the foundations of her respect, but even then, she didn’t completely turn her back on him as so many others had. For her to not even know him well enough to know he rarely jested and never in such a blatant manner was yet another blow to his fragile peace of mind.

“On the contrary, I’m completely serious. Why would I be ‘having you on’, as you say?”

“Seriously? It’s the perfect opportunity. I have no memory, and I’m blind. Why not tell me I’ve suddenly fallen into a fantasy world where magic exists to such an extent there’s even hospitals dedicated to healing using it? I suppose you’re also going to tell me the nurses from earlier are witches and you’re a wizard?” Though she may not remember her life, or who she was, Severus could tell that much of what made her Hermione still existed. The way she couldn’t help but move her hands when she spoke, gesturing wildly to add emphasis to a point; the way her eyes brightened as she worked herself up to defend her position; the way she rolled her eyes when she was particularly sarcastic. These little habits, whether she knew she was doing them or not, were so much a part of her that not even her memory loss could impede them.

“While I don’t particularly appreciate your sarcasm, you’ve rather hit the nail on the head. Do you remember nothing of magic? Of our world?” In a move somewhat reminiscent of his own mannerisms—if he was drunk off his arse—Hermione raised an eyebrow and managed to pull a sardonic quirk of her lips, mostly, in his direction.

“’Remember’? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Miss Granger, you are trying my patience. I refuse to alter my speech patterns to accommodate your sensibilities. I never have in the past, and I refuse to begin doing so now.” That provoked a small smirk from Hermione. She wasn’t sure why, just that it seemed the most natural response to his terse remark. Severus noticed, but wasn’t sure what was prompting her mirth. “Am I amusing you, Miss Granger?” Her continued denial of the situation was grating on his nerves, causing him to snap at her. The small quirk of her lips in response to his terse rejoinder was confusing at best, and annoying at worst. Hermione rarely laughed at him. With him at other people, yes, but not  _ at _ him.

Her spirits somewhat inexplicably lightened, Hermione also seemed rather confused by her mirth, shaking her head in the negative as she explained.

“Not at all Mister Snape. Well, that’s a bit of a lie, but I’m not really sure what I’m finding amusing.” Severus thought it curious but didn’t press further, instead returning to his original point. Whether she currently believed it or not, Hermione was a witch, and the sooner she accepted that fact, the sooner she could get on the road to recovery. Her blindness didn’t help at all. Magic was much easier to accept when it was visible and tangible. Severus knew this, and acknowledged it was likely a large factor in her continued denial. He didn’t want to force the information on her, per se, but if she didn’t start working his words through her stubborn brain he was going to resort to more physical measures of convincing her. He doubted she’d appreciate being hoisted into the air by a swift levicorpus, but it was likely to help his case.

“Whether you wish to believe it or not, you are a witch Hermione. I am indeed a wizard, and those two are also witches. Sampson is a healer in training to be a mediwitch, and Merryweather is a fully certified Mediwitch and has been for a number of years.” She seemed to visibly shrink and curl in on herself as Severus pressed his point about magic, still at the point of being willing to talk. He tried his level best to moderate his tone into something calm and sedate, though it didn’t seem to be working as Hermione continued to draw into herself. “You are in a wizarding hospital hidden in the middle of London, where you’ve been in a coma for the last 22 days and…” he silently cast a tempus charm, “roughly 17 hours.” Hermione stared over Severus’s right shoulder unable to come up with a response as she tried to assimilate his words into her world view. Unfortunately, they didn’t appear to want to fit.

When she hadn’t so much as blinked in a few minutes, continuing to stare somewhere over his right shoulder, Severus lost what little of his patience was left. Frustrated with her continuing to  _ nearly _ look at him, Severus reached out and turned Hermione’s head to the correct angle. Her eyes widened and turned glassy as she instinctively inhaled, but she didn’t pull away. His scent triggered the strangest sense of presque vu. She knew that scent, had indeed noticed it when she’d first woken up, but it was more than that. That scent swirled and flowed through her mind, alighting in places in an attempt to evoke memories that just  _ weren’t there _ to be recalled. She could feel where they were supposed to be, but nothing came.

She seemed mesmerised by something, breathing hard, but otherwise frozen. Her eyes drew his attention. He hadn’t had a chance to see them in so long. They seemed as they always had, the colour shifting from light chocolate towards rich chestnut the closer you came to her pupil. They drew him in.

His hand was warm.

He startled both her and himself when he said her name, quite a bit sharper than he intended. She jerked her head out of his grasp as looked down as though to look at her hands. The warmth from her skin lingered on his palm, but he tried to ignore it as she spoke some small platitude in excuse of both their behaviour. Her cheeks burned in confusion and embarrassment, but Hermione continued to resolutely look away from him. It wasn’t her fault his touch evoked a response from her body she could neither remember nor was she comfortable enough to ask about just yet. As familiar and evocative as everything about him seemed to be, Hermione had to remind herself continuously that he was a stranger to her as she was now. They might have had some connection before, but she had no idea what it was, and she wasn’t likely to ask any time soon.

“I’m sorry. I think I’m going to need a little time to assimilate that bit of knowledge.”

Severus sat back in his chair, inexplicably tense. His headache, which had lessened as his mind was taken off of it, returned full force. Pinching the bridge of his nose in some attempt to divert the pain, Severus tried to push his annoying thoughts behind occlumency shields that seemed to be far weaker than he remembered them. No doubt that was a product of spending so much time around people he trusted not to invade his mind at the drop of a hat. 

“Suffice it to say, you do have some time. Merryweather suggested another couple of specialists to contact. One for your memories, and one for your eyes. Neither is likely to see you until tomorrow. For the moment, I would advise you let the potions do their work and get some rest.” It was obvious to him, even if it wasn’t to her, that the potions were doing their job. She couldn’t keep herself upright anymore, could barely keep her eyes open.

“How much rest could I possibly need? I’ve been sleeping for three weeks.”

“You are still recovering. I expect you will find yourself sleeping the majority of the day for some time yet.” Her next question pulled him up short. It tugged at all the occlumency barriers he’d thrown up so hastily and caused an ache in his chest.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” He wanted to believe she wanted him to be there when she woke up because she actually wanted  _ his _ company. His traitorous heart wouldn’t allow him to believe it, though. Logically, he understood that he was one of the only people she was acquainted with right now, her only real tie to the world she’d woken up in, however tenuous. He was her lifeline, nothing more, and Merlin did that  _ hurt _ to admit. He wasn’t even sure she would use the term ‘friend’ if questioned.

After a few moments of silence in which Severus was sure she must have fallen asleep, he managed a response.

“I will endeavour to do so.” To be there when next she woke was an easy enough promise to make. It was unlikely he’d be anywhere else, but the thought seemed to reassure her as a soft smile spread across her face. That smile was a total transformation of her features. Where before there was an expressionless mask, now an innate energy hummed, proving even in the stillness of sleep that Hermione was no longer in that hope-draining state of unconsciousness.

Sure she was asleep, Severus pulled out his wand. The ebony wood was smooth and solid beneath his fingers, something he never had to question or fear would fail him. Recalling Hermione’s joyous expression when he asked her to move in with him, Severus cast his patronus. The silvery shape poured from his wand and split in two, the pair of big cats prowling about the room as they awaited his message.

“A development has occurred. Meet in Hermione’s room as a matter of urgency.” Hopefully, the two men on the receiving end would understand haste was essential. If whomever took Hermione’s memories learned she’d awakened, the chances of their coming to silence her permanently were too great to be ignored. Plans needed to be made and enacted.

After he sent them off, Severus decided to take a well-earned break. He’d done little else but pester and terrorise the employees of St. Mungo’s and most everyone else brave enough to so much as step in front of him over the last three weeks as he searched for some way to wake Mia up. Now that she appeared to be medically out of danger, he could take a few minutes to rest and reflect. Maybe even sleep.


	4. So the Walls Can't Talk? You're Sure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. A few weeks late. Please raise your hand if you're surprised. No one? Didn't think so.

Thus it was, when Harry and Draco entered Hermione’s room 30 minutes later, they found Severus and Hermione both asleep, neither a stitch out of place from where they’d been found countless times over the last three weeks.

“Should we wake him?” Harry looked to Draco as the resident expert on Severus’ reactions.

“Probably, but what sort of development could be so important he call us down here in the middle of the night, but mundane enough he fall asleep in the half hour it took to get here?”

“Could that scroll have something to do with it?” Draco’s eyes narrowed on the scroll Harry was pointing too. In his experience, red restrictions were never a good thing when it came mediwizardry. Not wanting to get himself hexed for taking it from its place so close to Severus’ body, he instead decided to wake the man, loath though he was to do it. This was likely some of the first sleep his godfather had had in days.

“Severus!” He called sharply, throwing a hasty protego in front of himself and Harry as the older wizard reflexively shot a stupefy in their direction upon waking. “You need more sleep. That wasn’t hardly even in range of us.” The now fully awake Snape simply glared before turning to check on Hermione. Satisfied she was still sleeping peacefully, he turned back to the two young men and tossed them the scroll. Draco caught it deftly and made to break the seal, seeing it had turned green, recognising the presence of someone authorised to view the contents. Before he could, Severus threw up a barrage of silencing and security spells—including the muffliato spell he’d created as a teenager—causing Draco and Harry to wonder anew at what this ‘development’ might be.

“Are you just being your paranoid self, or is there a reason this room is now more secure than the Minister’s office?” Instead of answering, Severus merely indicated Draco should open the scroll. Rolling his eyes, Draco complied, instantly becoming serious as he recognised what he was looking at. 

“She woke up then?” he asked, without looking up from the scroll. Harry jerked his head away from his perusal of Hermione to look at Severus in shock.

“When were you planning on mentioning that?” Severus cocked and eyebrow, but made no other comment. Harry glared back, entering into a brief and fruitless staring contest as Draco took a few minutes to read over the contents and analyse the copies of Hermione’s diagnostics and brain scans taken by Mediwitch Meriweather. Upon completion, Draco transfigured a pair of napkins on Hermione’s side table into a chair and fell into it, laying the scroll open on the bed.

“How did we not know of this before now?”

“Meriweather is looking into that, but the most likely solution is the most obvious: that it was intentionally obscured and kept from us.”

“Care to share?” Harry didn’t flinch under the equally disparaging looks thrown his way by both Severus and Draco.

“Feel free to read it. I’d suggest skipping to the end. The bits in the middle are rather technical for someone like you to understand.” Harry barely managed to contain his annoyance at Draco’s continued gibes at his intelligence, but knew after a glance at the early parts of the scroll, in this case, the taunt was probably warranted.

“Can I get a summary, or would that be too much trouble?”

“Very well, Potter. If you insist.” Draco summoned another napkin and transfigured it into a chair, rather less detailed than his own, but serviceable. “That scroll lists the results of a number of diagnostic spells Mediwitch Meriweather performed on Hermione during what we consider a preliminary examination as pertains to diagnosing head injuries. Many of the diagnostics can be run on the unconscious witch or wizard, but about half require the participation of the patient. In someone suffering from an impact based injury, the diagnostic will return a particular set of results indicating loss of function in a specific area of the brain depending upon the injury, but affecting the entire section.” Harry looked back at the images of colours moving about the page. It didn’t appear to him that there was a particular lack of activity, just one deep green thread moving about in her brain, like it was looking for something.

“I admittedly know very little about what I’m looking at, but that does not appear to be the case here.”

“Very astute of you. The reasoning behind your recent promotion is quite apparent now.” Harry had long since learned to respond to Severus’ unending sarcasm in kind. It always seemed to take him off guard best when Harry deliberately misunderstood his meaning.

“Why thank you, Severus. I had no idea you kept up with my career.” A delighted grin was plastered on Harry’s face. Severus sneered.

“It’s rather difficult to ignore when it’s been plastered all over the front page of the Daily Prophet.” Harry smile faded.

“Yes, well. Short of enlisting Hermione’s talent for blackmail, I’ve run out of ways to get them to stop doing that.” He looked back to the scroll. “What’s this dark green tendril? It looks like it’s looking for something.”

“That is, interestingly enough, the key point of these tests. Often, you find one of two results when encountering memory loss as a result of spell damage instead of physical injury. Either the memory is masked, leaving the impression of normal brain function with the occasional ‘wall’ when attempting to access a memory, as in the case of repressed memories; or the memory is removed, leaving the actual structure and function of the brain seemingly intact, just with holes where the memories should be. Cruciatus victims have veritable blast holes. These are much smaller, more precise. That tendril indicates Hermione’s attempt to locate a memory when prompted, where her mind clearly knows the paths it should be following to find it, but is discovering a lack of information there when arriving at the location. Each memory type is a different colour and differs from person to person, often making it difficult to follow a patient’s thought processes, but for our purposes the movement of the tendril is more important than the colour.”

“Are you trying to tell me this damage is indicative of a memory charm?”

“Succinctly put, but accurate.”

“Merlin’s pants.” All three men took a long look at Hermione, their minds wandering to what memories she may have lost of each of them; remembered their times at Hogwarts and the years since. It was sobering to think all that might be gone for her.

“How do we get them back? Is it reversible?”

“That is in fact my area of expertise, Potter.”

“I know, Draco. I’m asking for specific likelihood of success, and how to go about the process.” Harry pulled his eyes from Hermione to look at The two men sitting with him. “We can’t leave her like this. She’s the best of all of us. We all owe her our lives in one way or another, even if she has always maintained there is no debt, and I refuse to let this be the end of all she’s worked so hard for over the last decade.”

“It was my intention in calling you both here to formulate just such a plan, Potter. However, the foremost concern is Hermione’s continued safety. Now that she’s awake, whoever took those memories could very likely return to ensure she doesn’t regain them. The most effective way to do that is to remove the threat entirely, as I’m sure the explosion was intended to do in the first place.”

Draco was the first to break the intense silence that fell between them.

“Well, we certainly can’t leave her alone for any reason. Someone needs to be with her at all times until the culprit is caught. I would volunteer for the first shift, but at the moment I really should be returning to my wife. On that note, Severus I highly suggest you do your best to avoid Kiana for at least the next week if you value the prospect of ever sleeping with Hermione again.” Severus raised an eyebrow in inquiry, and yet managed to still look completely disgusted. “Tonight was the first night we managed to get Scorpius down before eight in about a month. Your patronus interrupted us at a rather inopportune moment and resulted in a few pieces of broken pottery after Kiana let out some of the pent up frustration we were unable to deal with more pleasurably.” His obvious glee at Severus’ discomfort was contagious, leaving Harry in a similar state of humour.

“By all means, don’t let me keep you. We wouldn’t want her to damage any of  _ your  _ bits for being gone too long, now would we?”

“I’ll be back in the morning to start running my own diagnostics.” Draco stood and re-transfigured the chairs into napkins, catching Harry off guard and nearly depositing him on the floor. “So sorry, Potter. Only meant to do mine.”

“Sure, Malfoy.”

“Try to keep this under wraps, gentlemen. Until we have some idea of the culprit, we need to keep this knowledge contained.”

“Of course, Severus. Tomorrow we can talk about setting up a rotation of ‘visits’ from Hermione’s friends. Whenever at least one of us can’t be here with her, one of the others should be able to step in.” Harry looked at the two Slytherins before him, idly wondering what it would have been like if he’d been one of them. “We don’t need to tell them  _ why _ we need them to watch her; not yet.” The other two seemed surprised he’d suggest such a thing but nodded, before Severus dropped the wards and both silently and wandlessly opened the door.

“Bloody show off,” Draco muttered as he and Harry left, pulling the door closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's shorter than my usual fare, but I do hope you enjoyed the chapter. This was initially part of chapter 3, but it just made the chapter nauseatingly long. Thus it is it's own chapter.
> 
> ~A


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